


Murder and Skulk

by moodymarshmallow



Series: My Dear Warden [8]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow





	Murder and Skulk

Antiva is a city of bacchanalia, of free-flowing brandy and street festivals, of restaurants with silver platters of roast lamb, mussels and oysters, olives and pale cheese, and roasted pears with honey, of whorehouses offering the best in flesh, both male and female, both elf and human, and shops selling the most fashionable finery and weapons that a man can buy.

It is a city of opulence and filth and murder, one where a few dead bodies in back alleys barely raise an eyebrow from the local populace, especially if they’ve all been killed in a similar fashion. Blood pouring from the neck is a warning to all of Antiva’s citizens to keep one eye out for Crows, because where there are puncture wounds there are assassins, and where there are assassins, chaos and death is not far behind.

But this spate of murders was not the work of the Crows, a fact known only to two elves, the wife of a dead Orelsian merchant, and the house of Crows themselves. Ten were dead, one of whom was a master, and third in line to take leadership if the current head of the guild was killed or otherwise taken out of power. Theron was responsible for over half, but Zevran’s targets were more skilled and took more work to take down. Theron killed novices, fools green enough to answer to secret code words in public, ones that he could out-stealth and outsmart, then surprise with a blade to the throat or the back of the ankle, debilitating or killing in one blow, playing to his strengths of agility and speed rather than forcing himself into hand-to-hand combat.

When it was just apprentices disappearing, few in the Crows paid much attention to their sudden deaths. New assassins were a copper a dozen, sometimes even less, depending on where they bought them, so the loss of a few untrained recruits wasn’t hurting them all that much. The fact that they were dead proved that they weren’t worthy of climbing the ranks, and for a while, the guild leadership joked about thanking whomever it was for culling the weak. But when they found the third in command dead in an alley, full of Crow poison and dagger wounds, the game changed. It was no longer a joking matter, it was now a threat that must be given serious consideration. They sent eyes into the city, Crows that sat on balconies and rooftops to watch and listen, sending apprentices as decoys and trailing them, waiting.

None of them expected it to be Zevran, and when the description of a tanned elf with blond hair and distinctive facial tattoos made its way to the Crows’ safehouse, there were wary glances exchanged between the guild hierarchy. They had all heard the stories, and though none of them really believed that Zevran had fought alongside the Hero of Ferelden, it was unwelcome news. When one scout came back with reports of another elf, red-haired and tattooed like a Dalish, there was only confusion, but when the third scout put the two together, drinking at a café, alarm rippled quickly through the Crows. If he had an ally, he could have an army, and since a scout had positive confirmation of both Zevran and this mystery elf attacking apprentices, word went out through the organization that all contracts were halted until one, or both of these elves were brought in.   
  
The city teemed with Crows, more than usual, apprentices locked away in safehouses while masters walked the streets in their colors, wearing prominent heraldry patches on their shoulders, waiting for one of the two elves to take the bait. One was struck down outside of a whorehouse, having barely enough time to put his cock back into his pants before he was attacked by Theron, his throat slit from ear to ear, leaving him to bleed on the brothel steps.   
  
Zevran slipped out of their grasp twice, sensing alarm at a target that seemed too easy, and backing away from the kill without taking it, running untrackable zig-zags through the streets and buildings, losing them before they could find out where he was staying.   
  
Once they knew they were being followed, Zevran and Theron rented apartments throughout the city, sleeping in none of them more than two nights at a time, separating more than they would have liked for safety’s sake, staying at Joséphine’s manor only when they were sure they were not followed. They were at odds at what to do; Zevran was wary, suggesting that they leave the city, go into hiding until the search died down, return to Kirkwall, perhaps, where the Crows had little presence, or go elsewhere, to Orlais to Joséphine’s estate there, just until it blew over. Theron was unphased.   
  
“You see, ma vhenan,” he said, a smile in his pale sage eyes, “I have never met a Crow I couldn’t best.”   
  
“You have met very few Crows, amor.” Was all Zevran said in return.   
  
Lucía, like Zevran, was sold to the Crows as a child, a young slip of a girl, purchased from a mother who didn’t want her nearly as much as she wanted the coin. She was a bitter child, blind in one eye from birth, making no attempt to hide the milky unseeing eye with a patch, finding sadistic pleasure in the way people shuddered when they saw her. She made a good Crow, as she had little remorse for her victims, and hoarded coin like a dragon, taking risky contracts that offered high rewards and always returning with proof that she had carried it out. Apprentices feared her, but the higher-ups in the guild were grooming her for a leadership position. There were few women that ranked highly in the Crows, but she was ruthless enough to be one of them.   
  
Theron found her behind a café, staggering like a drunk, holding to the wall as though she thought she was going to fall. He padded behind her in soft leather boots, making no more sound than an alley cat as he stalked her, dagger clenched tightly in his right hand. He slipped into the shadow of an alcove, and called out the phrase he had used to take the rest of the apprentices off guard. She glanced towards him, slowly, and Theron realized something was wrong.

  
She was smiling.   
  
He darted from the alcove, hoping his sudden appearance would startle her, making no attempt to attack, trying only to slip past her and back out into the streets were following him would be difficult. She lunged for him and he dodged, easily evading her. The alleyways were narrow, but Theron knew them, and jumped over overturned trash bins and boxes as he ran, not glancing behind him to see whether she was following or not. It made no difference, he would run until he was safe.

A sudden, sharp pain in his thigh stopped him and he slammed his back against the nearest wall, putting his fist to his mouth and growling into it as he reached behind himself and grabbed the knife, pulling it from his flesh and throwing it to the ground with a sharp metallic clatter, only realizing when he raised his hand that it was coated in something. He put that hand to his nose and sniffed, glancing down the alley to see her slowly advancing, suddenly feeling lightheaded, dizzy, unable to stand. He wiped his hand on his trousers and pushed off from the wall, stumbling to the side as he started to run again. His leg locked up, numb and stiff, and he tumbled to the ground in a heap, shards of a broken wine bottle slicing his arm.   
  
He crawled, not willing to give up, but his head was starting to swim. He thought he heard Zevran calling him, but when he turned his head it was only the assassin. She kicked his shoulder, rolling him to the side, and planted her boot onto his chest.   
  
“You are a fool to try and attack me.” Her voice was soft but ragged, already ruined from years of smoking hand-rolled cigarettes laced with lyrium. “Do you hear me, elf?”

“I can’t.” Theron gasped, his eyes rolling back as she pushed her foot hard against his sternum.   
“Maybe I should make it more clear for you then.” She crouched, her foot still planted against his chest. “I said, you are a fool—” She noticed too late that his hand was clasped around the neck of the broken bottle, and he managed to jam it in her face, aiming for her eye. His aim was good, he thrust the bottle deep into her eye socket, trying to squirm out of her grasp when she screamed and her hands flew to her face.   
  
He wasn’t able to get far; the poison was working, making movement difficult, and he realized he’d use the last of his strength to attack her as he tried, and failed, to shake her off of his chest. Then he stopped, a cold chill running through his body as he realized she was laughing.

“Wrong eye, knife-ear!” Was the last thing he heard before she cuffed him in the head and he lost consciousness.   
  
He woke to cold water, gasping and sputtering, the light harsh on his eyes, rope digging painfully into his wrists and ankles. Everything hurt; he had no doubt that they had beaten him before tying him up. The pain ran through him in waves, when he slumped, he felt a broken rib, and when he sat up fully he felt bruises on his back.   
  
“I cannot believe a weakling like you has taken out so many of our men.” His eyes adjusted enough to see the assassin from the alley standing over him, her face wrapped in bandages, holding an empty bucket. He jolted when she threw it to the ground, the clatter ringing loudly in his ears. “You’re pathetic, and I refuse to believe that you’re the one behind this. Where is Zevran Arainai?”   
  
“You’re better off killing me,” Theron said, his voice raspy and weak. He wondered how long he’d been there, having flashes of memory return, knowing it had to have been more than a few hours. His stomach ached with hunger, and he was sure that the Crows knew nothing of the Grey Warden appetite, or even that he was a Warden to begin with. They seemed to have no idea who he was.

“That’s cute, and I’m tempted, but the higher ups want Zevran first.” She reached around him to grab his hair, and he barely registered the glint of a knife, only noticing the lightness and cold air on the back of his neck. His braid was in her hand when he opened his eyes, and he glared, furious and speechless as she handed it off to man wearing a bird mask. “We know where he is. We just wanted to hear it from you.” She stood, walking out of the cell and closing the door behind her, waving, almost friendly, as she left, taking the torch with her.   
  
Time passed, though he could not be sure how much. Nothing changed; there was only the cold stone under his feet and the wooden chair against his back. He kept slipping into exhausted sleep, having nightmares, waking and choking back sobs as paranoid claustrophobia set in, squinting his eyes closed against the dark and trying to imagine nicer places. He put himself in forests, in tents, in Joséphine’s manor, anywhere that was bright and airy, with Zevran at his side, to try and push through the panic. He thought he heard him a few times, the thick Antivan accents of the Crows walking by his cell reminding him of how it sounded whispered in his ear.

They offered him food in return for information, and he refused it, feeling somewhat vindicated in knowing that Lucía had lied when she said they knew where Zevran was, reasoning that they wouldn’t be bartering with him if that was the truth.  
  
Weakness began to set in, and when he closed his eyes he saw the Deep Roads, finally crying out in frustration and anguish when he opened them yet again to see nothing but iron bars in front of him.

“Is he worth it, knife-ear?” Lucía asked him, dragging a knife slowly across the tattoo on his face, tracing the pattern, making superficial cuts though she threatened to completely slice it off. “I’ve heard all about Zevran, you know. It’s cute—stupid, but cute, that you think you’re protecting him.” Her knife split the skin near his ear, blood pooling in it, and he tilted his head to let it drain out. “We sent your hair to the Orelsian’s place.” She grinned when Theron’s eyes flicked up to her face. “If he doesn’t come soon, we’re going to start sending body parts.” She reached behind his right ear, tracing the long scar with her fingertips. “I want to start with this one.”   
  
“That will hardly be necessary.”   
  
Both Lucía and Theron’s heads raised at the voice from the doorway, Theron’s out of recognition, and Lucía’s out of alarm. Theron said nothing; he dropped his head again, pretending not to know Zevran’s voice when he heard it.

“I’m busy here. If you want a piece of him, come back later when I’m done.” She laughed, sarcastic and low, turning back to Theron with her face twisted into a sadistic grin.   
  
“It is a pity that the Crows’ methods so often work.” Zevran sighed as he crossed the room, and when the torchlight hit him Theron could see the blood on his hands. He knew it wasn’t his, and he braced himself the best he could when Lucía turned and realized who she was looking at.

“You!” She was on her feet, Theron forgotten, her dagger expertly brandished as she stepped around Zevran in a slow circle, watching him carefully. “Do you have any idea how much killing you is going to be worth?”   
  
“A fortune, or so I hear,” he said dryly, unamused, and Theron heard the singing of metal against sheath as he drew his blades, watching silently as they circled one another, cautious and tense like wildcats, waiting for one to make the first move. She took it, lunging at him, all power and no grace, intending to knock him over, but underestimating his agility. No sooner than she moved, he was at her side, grabbing the hand with the knife before she could take the first blow. He twisted, and Theron heard the crack and grind of bones as her wrist snapped. “You have no idea who you are dealing with, do you?”  
  
She spat at him, grabbing her knife from her belt with her left hand, swinging it wildly at him, catching his cheek and dragging a long red line down it even as he pushed her to the ground. “Should have killed him when I had to chance.” She hissed at him as he took the knife from her, baring her teeth like an animal when he pressed it to her throat.

“The only difference that it would have made is that I would have been angry when I killed you, rather than just feeling sorry for you.” She gurgled when he slit her throat, and Theron tried to close his ears to it, squinting shut his eyes until it passed and there was nothing but the sound of Zevran’s boots against the stone floor. “Ah, amor,” he said softly, brushing the back of his knuckles against Theron’s bleeding cheek. “Look at what they’ve done to your hair.”   
  
Theron laughed, a raw, pitiful sound that dissolved into sobbing when Zevran wrapped his arms around him, deft hands untying the rope around his wrists, easing them slowly from behind the chair, the ache in Theron’s shoulders shooting all the way down through his back. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, watching Zevran kiss his raw wrist, his throat dry as he swallowed.

“Hush. There is nothing that dwelling on the past can change.” He brushed a bloody thumb against Theron’s cheek, leaning in to rest their foreheads together. “I have a place where we will be safe for a few days, but we must leave the city as soon as you are able.”   
  
“Joséphine—”   
  
“She is dead.” Zevran dropped to his knees and began to untie Theron’s ankles. Theron touched his head lightly, and Zevran glanced up to meet his weak, confused gaze. “Quite peacefully in her sleep, from what I am told. She left us the estate in Orlais, foolish woman that she was, but that is where we will go once you are able to travel.” He massaged Theron’s ankles lightly now that they were untied, standing and kissing him softly. “I have clothes for you. Stay there for just another moment.” Theron rubbed his wrists, dazed, looking at the dead assassin on the floor, feeling as though he’d had no rest for weeks.   
  
Zevran helped him dress, giving up on trying to stuff his swollen, bruised feet into boots, letting Theron wrap an arm around his neck as he eased him out of the chair, and walking him slowly out of the cell.

The trail of dead was impressive, and had Theron felt as though he could crack a joke, he would have said so. Instead, he stepped over them as carefully as he could, letting Zevran bear most of his weight as they left the safehouse. He stumbled a few times, clutching Zevran’s armor weakly as he held him up, and by the time they reached the small apartment over the café, Theron could barely keep his head up.   
  
Zevran threw a few extra blankets onto the small bed before helping him down onto it, easing him again out of the clothes so that he could attend to the most pressing wounds before drawing them a bath. Though the elfroot poultices stung when they were applied to his open wounds, Theron drifted off again into exhausted sleep, waking only when Zevran shook him and told him that there was a bath.

“I’m so tired,” he murmured as Zevran eased them in, Theron sitting in Zevran’s lap, his back leaning against his chest as they sank into the warm water together, close enough to the fire that they could stay for a while.   
  
“I would say that I am surprised you are still alive, but I’m not. I did not expect that they would kill you, though a lesser man would likely have died. You were there for almost a week, amor.” Zevran slipped his arms around Theron’s waist, holding him close, the tremor in his voice so light that Theron almost thought he imagined it. “Never do that again,” he said, speaking into Theron’s neck, quietly desperate.’

“I’m sorry,” Theron said again, turning enough to catch the oddness in Zevran’s eyes. “I—” Zevran’s fingers were soft on his lips, and he dragged them off to his cheek, pushing Theron’s head against his chest.   
  
“Never again, amor.”   
  
Theron nodded, his fingers playing over the scarred-over arrow wound on Zevran’s shoulder, the one Theron gave him. “So we’re going to Orlais?”

“Unless you have a better idea, yes. We have the deed to Joséphine’s estate, and it is as good a place to hide as any.” He stroked Theron’s wet shoulder slowly. “There is good food and wine, or so I’ve heard. Lots of masquerade balls and feasts. You would like that, I think.” Theron made a noncommittal noise, tilting his chin to kiss Zevran on the neck. Zevran cupped his chin and met his dry lips, pressing them together light and long, a soft sigh escaping his nose when Theron pushed his tongue between his lips, tasting Zevran’s mouth. “You cannot possibly be in the mood after that.”

“No, I’m not.” Theron settled his head into the curve of Zevran’s neck, sighing softly into it, the hot water and Zevran’s firm touch soothing the ache in his sore muscles, and when he once again slipped into unconsciousness, he woke to Zevran gently offering him porridge and water, both of which he downed thankfully. He spent hours drifting in and out of dreamless sleep, waking to the sting of poultice on his wounds and the warmth of Zevran’s body as he climbed into bed with him at the end of the day.

After two days of that, Theron was strong enough to dress himself and walk without leaning on Zevran. The broken rib still ached, but they had spent as long as they could in the safehouse. The café that they were staying over was, as Zevran explained, owned by a former Crow who owed Zevran a very large favor, but his reluctance to let the guild into his upper rooms would quickly prove suspicious, and they would have to move soon.   
  
They left the city that night, in the back of a merchant’s covered wagon, wedged on a bedroll between boxes of luxury goods and brandy, and as it rolled away, they watched two assassins enter the café and climb the stairs up the back of the building. Zevran put his arm around Theron’s shoulders, letting him rest his head on his chest, kissing his forehead and closing his eyes, unwilling to watch the city disappear again into the darkness. This time he vowed that he would not just leave Antiva—he would forget it, and all that came with it, and as he stroked Theron’s newly short and uneven hair, he had no regrets in doing so. Antiva was dead, and if any Crows managed to follow them, they would be as well. 


End file.
